Page 24 of The Pumpkin Bride

Even if she hadn’t yet had a bath.

A tortured scream startled Marigold awake. Her heart slammed against her ribcage. Was it the fox again? Had she dreamed it? Powerful, realistic night visions had haunted her before. The kind when Bram visited her, so close but untouchable.

Though she’d be thrilled if it wasn’t real and she’d imagined that noise. Why were the hinterlands so unnecessarily scary? In the dark, she listened for Jask. Company made scary noises tolerable. Nothing from him, either.

She jolted at a fresh screech.

Not the fox, but her heart settled. The rooster—what had Jask called him? Barnaby?—announced the start of a new day. She slipped from the nest she’d made of the blankets and into the brisk morning. As her bare feet touched the cold floorboards, she flinched.

This room needed a rug. She added it to the mental list of things the cottage could use from the market the next time Jask visited town. No, scratch that—she wouldn’t be here long enough to justify home decor. Just until the palace guard presence died down, or . . . Wait. A key clicked in her mind. She bounced on her cold toes. Oh, brilliant.

Finally, an idea worth having.

She’d offer the orc coin to spirit her to Mareval. Given the worn state of his furniture, he was bound to accept for pay. She’d minimize herself, and much like she’d carried Fuzzle here, Jask could pocket her and venture across the Shivering Dales and deliver her to the sanctuary without attracting notice.

She tapped her chin. Would the revised plan require another coded letter to Rowan?

Possibly, if she tarried more than a few days. She’d need to travel to the town center to hire a messenger. Dangerous, that. If only she had the costume she wore when visiting the markets in Thornwick. A simple dress, false nose, and a wig allowed her to peruse wares without palace guards hovering and driving up the price. That all stopped when Papa had been crowned, though.

As had lots of things.

She brushed her hair from her face. Or perhaps she could convince Jask to go on his own to post a message? And shop a bit while he was there. Yes, for house slippers, and she’d strongly recommend a rug. Ooh, also for the list—pomegranates. They were in season.

Although . . .

She hadn’t seen a horse. Harvest Hollow proper was a fair distance from here. How did he go to the markets? After pulling on her green kirtle and cursing the difficult-to-reach lacings, she rubbed her teeth with a piece of frayed sage twig from her herbal remedy kit, then rinsed with cold water from the jug. She attached her pruning knife to her belt, then glanced in her looking glass. The small mirror was sufficient for face only, but it would have to do. His room held none larger.

“Good morning,” she trilled as she leaned over the railing.

To no one, apparently. Only a divot remained where Jask had slept, along with the quilt. She descended the stairs and ventured into the kitchen. The cooking hearth was lit, but there was no food upon it. From the nearby window, she peered into the yard.

Ah, there he was, feeding the clucking bundles of feathers.

His coarse linen shirt hugged his back, his sleeves pushed up for a day’s work. No cloak, though, which meant the weather was fine. She pulled on her gardening turn shoes, then swung open the door to the cool air. The earth was fresh, and the sky held a fragile quality, a pale dove gray met by a growing pink.

“Morning!” she called.

Jask startled. “Blood and bones! Where did you come from?”

“The house?” She gestured toward the feed pail. “Let me help with that.”

“No.” He turned and scattered more grain for the pecking birds.

She curled her fists and glowered at his broad back. Stubborn orc. She’d inundate him with bubbly helpfulness. He’d rue the day he rebuffed her.

“I’m sure you don’t need my help.” She wrapped her fingers around the pail’s handle, dangerously close to his, and beamed her most brilliant smile. “But I insist. Have you eaten?”

He flinched and let go of the handle like she’d thrown fire at him.

Disconcerting, but she’d take the win.

He lifted the latch on the chicken-yard gate, then let himself out into the courtyard. “I tend the animals before I break my fast.”

“What else does ‘tending the animals’ entail?” she asked.

He disappeared into the dairy. Fantastic. She loved when someone left a conversation. The last scoop of feed plinked against the patches of dirt amid the straw. A beautiful brown hen beat its wings and hopped over the others to gobble up the feed. Marigold respected her ambition.

Jask returned with a large milk pail, then headed toward the byre.